Always Seventeen (Poetry)

If there is any consolation to be found
maybe it is this —
I will not have to witness how you age —
how the years take hold of beauty and unpick
perfection — undermine what was firm and true
little by little take away — undo
what youth took for granted —
accepted as its due.

I will not have to watch helpless
and observe the light grow dim as tiredness
folds around your eyes
and the sheen fades from your hair —
limbs turn frail and awkward —
for I will be safe elsewhere
and excused from the task
of recording sigh by sorrow
how your glory didn’t last.

And maybe it’s the mark of cowardice
but I admit
a part of me is glad I will not see
pity in your eyes look back at me —
reflecting on the way I — too —
succumb to the invisible attack
and since we are no longer allies in the field
you’ve now deserted
the years will soon outnumber me
my thin-walled bluff defences crack
and tumble into ruin.

But at least in my defeat I will still own
a memory untarnished and unflawed —
you at barely seventeen — immortal woman-child
who plotted my undoing.